Welcome to the moor of my mind, to the bog of my mood. In this place you'll find reflections in a shattered mirror, shadows in an autumnal day, changing dark clouds in my mind's nocturnal sky. This place is such a stuff as dreams and nightmares are made on, a journey record which gives shape to a different world. Welcome to my world.

We are driven by forgotten impulses, instincts deeply buried in our own flesh, imprinted into the cellular cytoplasm. Ruled by the primordial, where instead we are sure that the intellect has a solid grasp on the exudations of our own flesh. Unconsciously we lose parts of our being, holes which appear into our life, cavities into our history which we are no more able to fill up again. Events in our children's life which we miss, moments we don't snatch at, severed bonds, loved ones who pass away. Voids which are created, holes dug by ourselves, wounds which we receive. Like in the soil, body of the Earth, the empty spaces are used by the

water and the gases to move and migrate, and by the worms with them, so the fluids of the ancestral ego exude on the surface of the modern ego. And with the fluids the worms go back up, the nematodes of the animal impulses, of the archetypal fears and most ferocious desires, worms which infest the corpse of the evolute man, carving its inside and depriving it of a core to hold to. The life bringing death, life born from death, life passing through death, starting to devour the still alive host, then giving motion to the insensitive corpse, to eventually emerge in a purulent explosion, in a deliberately forgotten shape which can't accept to remain so.